


In the Dark

by hunenka



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Crack, Episode s10e23 Brother's Keeper, Ficlet Collection, First Kiss, Gen, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Season/Series 10
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-02
Updated: 2015-10-07
Packaged: 2018-04-22 17:48:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,778
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4844726
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hunenka/pseuds/hunenka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Four completely unrelated ficlets inspired by the season 10 finale.</p><p><i>Respect Your Elders</i> - They should both be dead, and Death is being petty. (Gen)</p><p><i>I Do Believe in the Light</i> - After the Darkness is defeated, Dean finally gets his vacation. (Wincest)</p><p><i>Close Your Eyes</i> - When Sam was a little kid, he used to be scared of storms. (Gen)</p><p><i>His Master's Voice</i> – “Sam? The Darkness… I think it’s talking to me.” (Gen)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Respect Your Elders

This isn’t going to end well, Dean’s not naïve enough to think that they can get out of this alive. God and the archangels fought a fucking _war_ with this Darkness thing, so it stands to reason that someone like Sam and Dean don’t have the slightest chance. Which means that this is it, the end.

Stupidly, Dean's last complete thought is _please at least let Baby survive this intact_ , and then, before he can rectify that, say something meaningful or comforting to Sam, the Darkness is passing through the windshield as if there was no barrier at all. When it comes into contact with Dean's skin, it's a like an electric shock, only somehow deeper, sharper, more immediate. Absolute, inescapable, final. And Dean's had enough experience with dying to know that he’s dead now, and Sam must be too.

Except nothing’s happening. The cloud of smoke flies past them and they’re still sitting in the car, clutching at each other, wide-eyed and confused.

“The hell?” Dean says eloquently.

“We just died, didn’t we?” Sam seems just as confused. “Why aren’t we… dead?”

Oh shit. Shit shit _shit_. “Maybe because I killed Death?”

“Oh, please.”

They both jump at the sound of that British accent, turning around and gasping in shock when they see Death in the backseat. The tray with Dean’s snacks is resting in Death's lap, one half-eaten taquito is in his fingers.

“I just - I just killed you,” Dean stammers out.

“Oh, please,” Death repeats, even more condescending than before. “As usual, you’re overestimating your importance. I cannot be killed. Not by the likes of you.”

“But the Mark–“

“Yes, the Mark,” Death’s attention shifts to Sam, who kind of withers under the creature’s stern stare. “I told you removing it would be a great mistake. But you didn’t listen, did you, Sam?”

“I – “

One bony finger is lifted, a little greasy from the taquito. “No excuses.”

While the Darkness rolls like thick smoke around the Impala and Sam and Death engage in some sort of a staring contest, Dean’s still stuck at the previous topic of conversation. Because yeah, sure, killing the pale Horseman was reckless and possibly dumb, but also pretty badass. And it would look great on Dean's résumé. “How come I didn’t kill you? I had your scythe.”

Maybe he should’ve kept his mouth shut, is what he realizes when Death’s glare turns back to him. It looks like this time, Death is 100% done. “Dean, I’d like you to recall what I told you when we first met. Imagine a bacterium claiming it can kill you.”

“Well, actually–“ Sam starts, and Dean’s not sure he can call this being suicidal since they’re technically already dead, but he is sure that provoking Death is a terrible idea. So he smacks his geek brother in the shoulder, ignores Sam’s indignant “Ow!” and shushes him. Thankfully, Sam gets the message loud and clear, and shuts up.

“Okay, so you’re not dead,” Dean says after a few moments of very tense silence. “But the Darkness killed us. So why are we still here?”

Death must be really pissed, because he chooses to ignore the Winchesters in favor of munching down another taquito. Dean is offended at being given the cold shoulder, but at the same time he can’t help feeling flattered that his culinary skills are being properly appreciated for once.

Still, when Death doesn’t seem any more inclined to speak even after eating two more taquitos and three tamales, Sam and Dean exchange a look and both clear their throats at the same time to remind Death of their presence.

Death lets out a long, extremely annoyed sigh. “Ah, yes. You’re still here. And you’ll continue to be here. You won’t be able to die, either of you.”

“But… Why?”

“Because I want it that way. Because I’ve run out of patience with you two. You’re irresponsible and meddlesome, you keep tampering with the rules and sticking your noses where they don’t belong, and you,” he points a finger at Dean, “just tried to kill me.”

“I thought we’re just bacteria to you,” is what Sam comes up with, accompanying the words with that friendly, innocent look that always works on everyone.

It doesn’t work on Death. “Very _annoying_ bacteria. Ones that I could crush under my heel without any effort whatsoever, and believe me, the idea is very tempting. But,” Death leans forward, sticking his head over the backrest of the front seat, “that would be the easy way out. I don’t want to give you the easy way out.”

Dean has no answer to that; he’s still processing the fact that Death is _sulking_.

Sam’s still trying, though. “But shouldn’t someone like you, I don’t know, rise above something as petty as bearing grudges?”

Death raises one eyebrow, cocks his head to the side. “I’m old, Samuel. Older than you could ever comprehend. I believe I’m entitled to a bit of old man’s fickleness. Especially if it also serves to teach you two a lesson. You made a mess,” he jerks his chin towards the window and the raging Darkness outside. “Fix that mess. And then, if I’m feeling generous, I might do something about your current predicament. Good luck.”

With that, he’s gone, the food tray gone with him.

Dean looks at Sam, not sure what to say.

“Well, at least this means this mess is fixable,” Sam offers, but there’s a tiny question mark at the end of that sentence. “There must be a way, right?”

“Yeah,” Dean agrees hesitantly, then frowns as something occurs to him.

“What?”

“If anyone knows how, it’s him.”

“So we’re still screwed.”

“Yeah.” Dean racks his brain searching for other options, but try as he might, he can only see one that's at least remotely viable. They’re going to have to ask Death for help again. And Dean’s pretty sure it will take some major convincing this time. “Sam?"

"Yeah?"

"I'm gonna have to enroll in a culinary institute.”


	2. I Do Believe in the Light

“Dude, this is awesome. Why didn't we do this earlier?“ Dean tips his head back to finish his beer before it can get warm, because letting a good, cold beer go to waste is not something he’s willing to allow. When the last drop is gone, he lifts his hand to throw the empty bottle away, but Sam makes a disapproving noise and shoots him a look that’s reproachful and offended at the same time, as if Dean was just about to kick a newborn puppy or something, so Dean gives a long-suffering sigh and drops the bottle down by the leg of his chair.

“I don’t know,” Sam says after a while, and it takes Dean a second to realize he’s answering his earlier question. “We never really got the chance before.”

“Yeah. Guess so.” Though that’s a pretty mild way of putting it. “But a celebration of saving the world – _again_ – definitely is the right opportunity to finally do it.”

“Sure is,” Sam agrees, the satisfaction of a job well done evident in his small, proud and much deserved smile. Defeating the Darkness was one of the most difficult things they’ve ever done, and coming from them, that’s really saying something. Hunting down Rowena, forcing her to come up with the required spell and finding the practically nonexistent ingredients, essentially blackmailing Heaven into providing the enormous amount of mojo needed to actually cast the spell, and oh, let’s not forget the small detail of managing to _stay alive_ while doing all that. “We earned this.”

“And I’ll drink to that.” Dean grabs a new beer from the green cooler for himself. Not for Sam, because he’s still sipping on his first one like the girl he secretly is. “Here’s to victory, Samantha.”

“You’re such a jerk.”

“Shut up, bitch.”

They fall quiet again, happy to just lounge in their deckchairs and watch the ocean. It’s not even eleven yet but the sun’s beating down like crazy and Dean’s sure he’ll have one hell of a sunburn by the end of the day, but he’ll be damned if he lets that ruin this moment now.

They both fought so hard to get here, sacrificed too much to ever put their loss into words. And Dean’s had enough of losing. For once, he wants to _take_ , to _have_.

What’s strange and new, though, is that he thinks this time, he actually can.

“Hey, Sammy?”

When Sam turns to look at him, Dean leans over, slow and deliberate as he reaches out with one hand to touch the back of Sam’s head, pull his brother closer. Sam’s eyebrows raise mildly in curiosity, but he goes with it, and when their lips meet, Sam’s mouth is already open and waiting for Dean’s tongue to slide right in.

It’s their first kiss, but it doesn’t feel that way. It feels like they’ve been doing this for years, familiar and comfortable, no bumping noses or awkward fumbling or clumsy attempts at finding the right rhythm. A perfect fit, two pieces slotting together and becoming the one whole they were always meant to be. It feels almost suspiciously easy, unreal. Then Sam draws Dean’s lower lip between his teeth and bites down, hard.

“Ow!”

“See? It’s not a dream,” Sam murmurs before soothing the bite with his tongue, and they’re kissing again. Slow, no rush or urgency, taking the time to taste and savor each other. Dean’s fingers are tangled in Sam’s hair and Sam’s thumb is brushing over Dean’s cheekbone, and the world narrows down to just the two of them, the hush of the ocean and the warmth of the sun above.

“Not that I mind,” Sam says later when they’re sitting there, forehead on forehead because it feels wonderful to be so close, “but where did that come from?”

Dean draws back a bit so he can look Sam in the eyes. “Don’t act like this is news to you.”

“Fair enough.” Sam bends his head, mouth brushing against the side of Dean’s neck as he speaks. “But why now?”

“Why not?”

Sam’s smiling, Dean can tell from the tone of his voice alone. “I like the way you think.”

“Took you long enough to figure that out, genius.”

“But hey, I got there. What more do you want?”

“I don’t know, a double bacon cheeseburger, extra onions?” Dean suggests before something mushy like _I’ve got everything I want right here_ slips out of his mouth. “A better haircut for you?”

Sam doesn’t grace that with a proper answer, just shakes his head, trying – and failing – to hide a fond, amused smile. “Idiot,” he mutters, settling back into his chair comfortably, long legs stretched in front of him, slanted eyes squinting against the sun.

They should go grab their sunglasses from the Impala’s glovebox. And maybe find the nearest diner to get a couple of those burgers Dean just talked about. And definitely more beer, because the way this is going, with the sun shining like it’s trying to make up for the time its light was consumed by the Darkness, they’ll bake here otherwise.

Instead of getting up to do any of these things, Dean scoots his chair closer to Sam’s.

Some time passes before Sam speaks up. “Don’t you regret it?”

The question could’ve come right after the kiss and Dean would still know that’s not what Sam’s talking about. His eyes drop to his forearm, where a new mark shows how much exactly it cost them to push back the Darkness and lock it away once more. “No,” he says. “We had to do something and this was our best shot.”

Of course, Sam doesn’t seem satisfied with the answer, and has to keep on digging. “But… you were so relieved when you got rid of it.”

And Dean was. God, he was. When that bolt of lightning came through the roof and erased the Mark off his arm, it was like a veil had been lifted and he was fully alive for the first time in almost two years. In that moment, he didn’t care about the consequences, didn’t care about anything but being free of the curse. Which of course lasted for about two minutes and then the shit hit the fan. But they made sure they cleaned up their mess.

“Look,” he says finally, not too keen on raking over the past, “we broke the world, it only makes sense we’re the ones who had to fix it.”

Sam’s face falls at that, and since Dean doesn’t want this to become another guilt trip for either of them, he quickly continues. “Besides, it’s not the same as before. We put our own spin on the damn thing.” He runs his fingers over the raised, scarred flesh, tracing the angry red _S. W._ carved into his skin. His very own Mark of Sam. Without having to look up, he knows Sam’s mirroring his action, touching the twin scar of _D. W._ on his own arm. “So no, I don’t regret it.”

“Good,” Sam says, and grabs hold of Dean’s hand, squeezing once and not letting go. “’Cause I don’t, either.”

“Good,” Dean repeats with a grateful nod. Hopefully now they can drop the subject and go back to kicking back and enjoying their vacation.

Because this, the deckchairs and lazing about on the beach, swimming in the sea and drinking beers, it won’t last. The war’s changed the world irrevocably on a fundamental level. The existence of the supernatural is no longer a secret guarded by hunters and the human ability to not see what you don’t want to see. The Darkness has been bound again, but over the course of its presence on Earth, it stirred a lot of trouble, awakened a lot of monsters, and even created some new ones. Sam and Dean have work to do.

But that’s for tomorrow. Today, Dean grips Sam’s hand tighter, takes a swig of his beer and digs his toes deeper into the sand.


	3. Close Your Eyes

As a kid, Sam used to be scared of storms. The first crack of thunder had him scurrying to huddle up under the nearest table, curl into a ball under a blanket or Dad’s coat, or – ideally – to hide his face in the crook of Dean’s neck.

Dean, four years older and already far too knowledgeable about the true dangers of the world, would hold his little brother as tight as his thin, bony arms would allow, distracting him with songs that he remembered from his mom or with stories that he’d make up on the spot. The songs were off-key and the stories a bit repetitive, but that was okay because the words never really mattered, it was the unspoken meaning behind them: don’t you worry, Sammy, you’re safe, I’ll keep you safe. And Sam always seemed to get that particular message.

Things aren’t as simple now – in hindsight, Dean knows they never really had been – but with the Darkness approaching, a wild, rumbling storm of roiling blackness that makes the earth quake as it races towards the Impala, and with Sam’s hand desperately clutching at Dean’s arm, the big brother instinct is as strong as ever.

Sam appears to be stuck in a loop of repeating Dean’s name over and over, the grip of his fingers on Dean’s arm long beyond the point of painful. “Dean,” he says, urgent and full of fear, for himself and for Dean and for the whole world.

“It’s okay.” Dean wills his voice to remain strong and steady even as the Darkness howls, whirls and churns, closer and closer. He’s scared too, but that’s never stopped him before. “Hold on to me, Sammy.” He still has his left hand on the steering wheel, the fingers of the right one somehow end up entangled with Sam’s in a bone-crushing grip. And Dean’s not letting go, not now that the Darkness is upon them.

The black, whirling, ever-growing mass envelops the car, deafeningly loud as it presses on, the Impala groaning under the onslaught, shaking as if it’s going to fall apart. Dean spares one moment to glance around the car, checking that the doors are closed and the windows rolled up, hoping against all odds that the metal and the protective sigils won’t give. “Hold on,” he repeats, not sure whether he’s talking to Baby or to Sam or maybe to himself.

The level of noise outside increases as the smoke-like Darkness licks at the windows, eating away the remaining sunlight until only a few tiny slits remain, and Dean has one last moment to look into Sam’s wide, terrified eyes and then the world goes pitch dark.

Immediately, Dean pulls out his phone, swiping the screen to get some light. Only it’s still completely dark.

“Son of a bitch.” He knows he just growled the expletive, but he heard nothing, and when he turns the keys in the ignition, he can feel the engine’s vibrations but the dashboard doesn’t light up, and still, there’s no sound. Not his own breath, not the leather seat squeaking under him as he moves.

Sam’s touching him again, big hands pawing at Dean’s chest, his breath a hot, hard blow of air into Dean’s ear like he’s shouting, but Dean can’t hear a thing. Can’t see a thing.

“Alright, let’s just… Let’s stay calm,” he says, not caring that he could’ve just thought it for all the good saying it out loud did him. He catches Sam’s flailing hands in his own, guiding one to lay it over his chest while touching Sam’s chest with the other. Two beating hearts, proof of life, and that’s a start.

 _Can’t hear or see_ , he taps against Sam’s ribcage in Morse code.

 _Me neither_ , comes back from Sam. _Us or the Darkness?_

 _Don’t know._ There’s really no way of telling if they’ve gone deaf and blind or if this is somehow the Darkness creating… well, absolute darkness and silence, but when Dean takes Murphy’s law into consideration, his bet is definitely on the latter.

 _You OK?_ Sam asks.

_Yes. You?_

_Yes_.

_What now? Wait?_

_I guess._

Left with no other option, they sit and wait in silence. Unfortunately, that means there’s nothing for them to do but think, and thinking’s never good if you’ve screwed up as many times as the Winchesters have. Dean wishes he could crank up the radio, talk to Sam about something, _anything_ , because he can already sense the guilt building in his brother, Sam’s shoulders sagging under the weight. Knowing Sam, Dean suspects he's thinking about the repercussions of removing the Mark, maybe even reevaluating the speech he gave to Dean earlier, doubting his own words about the Winchesters not being evil.

Ironically, for Dean it’s the opposite – without the Mark clouding his judgement, it’s like his dark glasses have finally been taken off and he can see the world more clearly. (Metaphorically speaking, of course.) And even despite what just happened, he can’t help but agree with Sam’s earlier words: they’re not the bad guys.

The thing is, they’re not the good guys either. Not after all the things they’ve done and been through, everything they’ve sacrificed and been willing to sacrifice. They’re not the heroes of the story. They're just... here, trying, fighting, doing what needs to be done. And as long as they do it together, Dean's fine with that – because together, they always find a way.

If only he could tell that to Sam, and more importantly, if only Sam would believe him.

“We’ll figure this out,” he promises, and on its own accord, his hand moves toward Sam’s head, as if to swat away the swarm of bad thoughts swirling around him or maybe exorcise his inner demons with a touch. But when his palm cups the side Sam’s face, it meets something wet and sticky, and Dean suddenly remembers the blood and bruises that _he_ put there, just a bitter cherry on top of the poisoned pie that Sam had to eat this whole year.

“Jesus, Sammy…” He mutters, hand flinching back. “I’m so sorry.”

Sam can’t hear him, but he must get the gist because he pats Dean’s knee in what is Winchester speak for “It’s okay”.

Only it’s not, and it won’t be until Dean _makes_ it. And though it might not be much, at least he knows where to start. “Hold on a sec,” he says, leaning over the backrest to scrabble about for the first aid kit. He finds everything he needs fairly easily because he knows the Impala like he knows himself, and he knows Sam even better than that, so he has no trouble cleaning his brother’s face and disinfecting the wounds in complete darkness.

Patient and calm, Sam holds perfectly still for him, trusting Dean’s hands even though those same hands had put the wounds on his face in the first place, and with every swipe of the cloth, with every dab of the antiseptic, with every careful brush of a thumb pad over tender skin, Dean makes a promise never to break that trust again.

When he’s done, he puts the kit away and digs out the emergency stack of bottled water, takes a sip to check that the water hasn’t gone bad before offering the bottle to Sam and not accepting it back until Sam takes several solid gulps that Dean counts with a finger on Sam’s throat.

“Good boy,” he pats Sam’s shoulder, to which Sam responds by smacking Dean upside the head, proving that his accuracy is just as good as Dean’s when it comes to familiarity with each other. It makes Dean’s heart a little lighter, this simple proof that in a way, they’re still who they always were: Sam and Dean, brothers. This is how it’s supposed to be, this is the world Dean understands.

Leaning over the backrest again, Dean comes back with old blankets because stuck like this, they’re going to get cold pretty soon. After some complications that come with two grown men trying to wrap themselves in blankets while sitting in the front of a car – Sam’s elbow barely avoids Dean’s nose, and Dean bangs his head against the ceiling – they finally settle, crammed against each other, the blankets draped around the both of them like a protective cocoon.

The car still shakes and jolts from time to time, which means that the supernatural storm outside still rages on, and every time it does, Sam startles; cut-off, aborted motions that nevertheless don’t escape Dean’s attention, tuned in to Sam as he is.

“Just close your eyes, Sammy,” he whispers, wrapping his arm tighter around his little brother, and starts to hum _Hey Jude_.

Sam stills for a moment, then his palm moves up from where it was resting on Dean’s leg, coming up to touch Dean’s chest to feel the rumbling vibrations as he sings.

 _You’re way off-key_ , Sam’s fingers tap.

_How can you tell?_

_You’re always off-key._ A pause, and then: _I didn't say you should stop._

“Bossy little brat,” Dean grumbles, but he starts singing again. Sam nods, burrows his face deeper into the crook of Dean’s neck, and gradually the tension begins to leave his body. Eventually his breathing evens out, his head on Dean’s shoulder growing heavy with sleep.

In the darkness, Dean smiles.


	4. His Master's Voice

The cloud of black smoke moving towards them is impossibly fast, and in a glass half full moment, Sam thinks at least it will be over quickly and he won’t have to watch the world get destroyed.

But the Darkness stops its advance a few feet from the Impala’s front bumper, waiting there for maybe half a minute before venturing forward, slow this time, almost tentative, stretching out two arm-like protrusions on each side of the car, but keeping its distance.

Sam waits with bated breath.

Dean shifts in his seat, clears his throat. “Uh, Sam?”

“Yeah?”

“The Darkness… I think it’s talking to me.”

Sam freezes in fear; he’s seen the things Dean had done under the influence of the Mark, there’s no telling what he’s going to do now that the source of that power itself is affecting him directly. He swallows nervously, preparing himself for the worst. “So, what is it saying?”

“Um… Hello.”

“ _Hello_?!”

“Yes, Sam, hello. Y’know, that word people use when they’re being polite.”

“But that’s not people!” Sam points at the big puff of blackness that pulsates outside the window, his panic momentarily replaced by incredulous indignation. “That’s… I don’t even know what it is. One thing I do know for sure is that whatever it is, it doesn't get to just... waltz in here and expect a friendly chat.”

The Darkness jerks away from the car and dims a little. And... is it shrinking?

“Hey, that was uncalled for!” Dean turns away from Sam to give the Darkness an awkward wave, smiling apologetically. “Sorry, he didn’t mean it. He’s just worried, ‘s all.” His smile grows. “Yeah, I know you won't hurt us.”

Sam can’t believe what he’s hearing. “Seriously?”

Dean gives an easy shrug, which is making Sam really doubt his brother’s sanity. “Turns out the Darkness was trying to protect me all this time.”

“But… why?”

“Apparently it likes me,” Dean makes it sound like it’s obvious. In fact, Sam thinks he might've detected a note of smugness in Dean's voice. “Says I’m great company. It had much more fun with me in the last year than it had with Cain in centuries.”

“What, like massacring innocent people? Beating up your friends, your family?” Sam’s raising his voice, he can’t help it. At least Dean has the decency to look contrite. Come to think of it, somehow the damn black cloud outside the car manages to look like it’s sorry, too. Maybe it’s Sam’s own sanity he should be doubting here.

“Right, about that…” Dean tilts his head, listening to whatever the Darkness is telling him. “That was the curse, not the Darkness. It says it just wants to have some fun.”

“The Darkness wants to have fun,” Sam repeats dryly.

“Yeah,” Dean nods, eyes big and earnest, an expression of a six-year-old asking his parents for permission to go the carnival. “Y’know, hanging out in bars, playing pool and singing karaoke and drinking beer, flirting with chicks. Driving down a deserted highway, music blasting at max volume. That kind of thing. It’s been locked up for so long, it just wants to have a good time.” He gives Sam the puppy dog eyes, a weapon he uses very rarely, which is good because it works on Sam just as well as Sam’s version works on Dean.

As if that wasn’t enough, the cloud outside is much smaller, now roughly down to a size of a garbage truck, kind of hovering in front of the Impala uncertainly, expectantly. And Sam must really be going crazy, because he’s inclined to say that the Darkness looks almost hopeful.

“Well?” Dean speaks up, waiting for the verdict.

Ah, what the hell. Sam rolls his eyes and nods. “Alright, I guess it’s worth a shot.”

 

_Two months later_

Sam finishes the chapter and glances at his watch, a little surprised how much time has passed. He bookmarks the page with a ticket from the Def Leppard show they’ve been to last week, snaps the book shut before looking up, scanning the park until he spots his brother’s figure. “Dean, we should go!”

Dean jogs up to him, a little disheveled and slightly out of breath. “Already?” The Darkness, now looking for all intents and purposes like a black lab (because as Dean had put it, chicks dig manly men with manly dogs), bounces in excitement around Dean’s legs, almost tripping him several times and happily ignoring the stream of grumpy curses Dean is muttering under his breath.

“Yes, already. We’ll miss the vamps if we don’t head out soon.”

The threat of missing an opportunity to take down a vamp nest is reason enough. “We’re stopping for some burgers first though,” Dean says as he opens the Impala’s door to let the Darkness jump in.

The suggestion is approved from the backseat with much tail wagging, which makes a big mess out of the case files and notes Sam had left on the seat.

“Oh great,” Sam grumbles while Dean backs out from the parking lot, bent awkwardly over the backrest and trying to pick up the papers.

The Darkness looks apologetic.

Dean does not, laugh crinkles deep around his mischief-filled eyes. “Aw, Sammy, what’s up with the sour face? You always wanted a dog.”


End file.
